


send us love, send us power

by Celesma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel & Vessel Interactions, Gen, Mental Illness, Most likely to remain unfinished, Snippets, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celesma/pseuds/Celesma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some interconnected snippets from an abandoned Novak-centric WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes to understand these segments (which really comprise one very long sequence that I broke up):
> 
> ▪ This takes place immediately after the S04 episode The Rapture, when Cas takes Jimmy over again.  
> ▪ Jimmy is schizophrenic and Catholic (so expect mentions of mental illness, homelessness, suicide attempts, and praying to saints).
> 
> This was going to be an exercise in writing "how Cas and Jimmy developed their relationship off-screen during the plot of Supernatural" (because _yes_ I want to believe that Jimmy had just as much an effect on Castiel as the Winchesters did) but then I realized it would take a million years to write everything I wanted to about these two, and honestly there are writers who have already done a much better job tackling the exact same thing. (My two favorite Jimmy writers are [SLWalker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker) and [axilet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/axilet). GO READ THEM. And then, uh, maybe come back here if you feel like it.) 
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderfully talented axilet for encouraging me to post this!

_You bastard,_ Jimmy seethed.   
  
Castiel ignored him. They flew on through the void of deep space, apparently headed somewhere not so pedestrian as earth, each beat of the angel's wings at his back bearing them further and further away from the warehouse, from the hunters, from Amelia and Claire.  
  
_You utter bastard_. He'd never used such language before (at least not without going straight to confession in a mess of tears afterward, especially if he'd been careless enough to do it in front of Claire), but now—well, now he could see that it didn't matter. He'd lost his faith, his family. He had nothing left. He _was_ nothing. Thanks to Castiel, he would never again be Jimmy Novak in any way that mattered.  
  
And yet, none of these things compared one whit to what most had him furious.  
  
_How could you?_ he cried, hoping that the words blasting from his soul like cannon projectiles stung Castiel, that they _hurt_ him. _How could you do that to them? You said they were going to be okay, you said there was no need to worry. And then you go and—and let Amelia be possessed by a_ _ **demon,**_ _and you take my little girl_ _ **hostage?**_ _How the hell do you call that keeping a promise, you—_  
  
_That was not my intention_ , Castiel said suddenly, and Jimmy was momentarily taken aback. The angel's tone was one of implacable stone, and there was still nothing in the way of an apology, but at least he was talking to him; he was listening, so there was still some of the old angel left in him. Jimmy seized upon it.  
  
_You didn't think for_ _ **one moment**_ _that something like this might traumatize Claire?_ he raged. _That she might not be able to handle being possessed by some creature she couldn't even see or comprehend? Dammit,_ _ **I**_ _could barely handle having you inside me!_  
  
_She said yes. She understood enough—_  
  
_Bullshit. She was a desperate, scared child about to watch her parents die. She didn't have the benefit of being fed lies and feel-good platitudes for a month. She wasn't the stupid, selfish fool I was._ His voice fell to a pitch of despair. _You didn't even let me say goodbye to them. All you care about are your stupid plans. You don't care who you hurt._  
  
There was a long silence following his words, and Jimmy resigned himself to never getting an answer when Castiel spoke again. His tone remained colorless, indifferent. It made Jimmy want to scream. _The girl is fine. I saw to that before I left her. I cannot speak to your wife's condition, but there were no signs of physical damage or spiritual corruption that I could sense on her person._  
  
As they were speaking they continued to fly, Castiel's wings so quiet that only the vague internal sensation that there was no ground beneath his feet informed him that they _were_ flying. If Jimmy _(Castiel)_ had tilted his head slightly more to the left, he would have been fully able to see the planet that suddenly came floating out of the depths towards them like an enormous ocean liner, painted in luminescent shades of orange and violet, along with the three small moons that encircled it.  
  
Not that it was possible to enjoy such a view now. Or anything ever again, really.  
  
_You're all the same, aren't you? You think you can do whatever you want and none of us humans can complain, because we're all so stupid and puny and_ _ **inferior.**_ Jimmy pressed on, knowing that Castiel might put him under for his insolence (and most likely for good this time, but then maybe that was what he wanted; certainly there wouldn't be any difference between that and being dead, and being dead was looking very attractive right now, Catholic notions of suicide and mortal sin be damned), but he wanted so much for Castiel to see how he had torn apart this little family, to cut like a knife through his bullshit rhetoric about _love of mankind_ and _protecting God's favorites_ , and to penetrate—if only to the least little degree—the wall of stone that had been erected so suddenly around the angel since his return from Heaven.  
  
To feel again something like the warmth coursing through Claire's fingers as the angel stroked his blood-soaked hair, even as that terrible ultimatum fell from her lips.  
  
_Everything I am doing and have done is for the benefit of your kind_ , the angel said, and to his credit, he actually sounded unhappy. If Jimmy could have seen his face, he imagined that his lips would be drawn in a thin line of ill humor, his eyes narrowed to slits. _What I said to Dean stands. I work in the service of Heaven, and nothing else. If you cannot see that, there is nothing I can do to convince you._  
  
_But, you—!_  
  
_This conversation tires me._  
  
And just like that, Jimmy knew no more.

* * *

Trust in a person, once lost, is notoriously difficult to regain; and some would say that it is quite impossible. The same principle holds true for faith—moreso, in fact, as loss of faith springs from loss of trust in a Person. For, having lost the cornerstone and bedrock of your life, how can you believe in anything ever again? Especially when the agent of that apostasy was one of God's own?

_(On Christ the solid rock I stand; all other ground is sinking sand...)_  
  
Jimmy thought about this as the angel awoke him from a dreamless slumber, feeling the weight of wings coming to roost behind his back as they approached the cathedral, a towering monument characterized by windows cast in panes of stained glass and mortar and bricks that gave onto an elaborate arched entrance layered in gold. The clouds scudded peacefully overhead in a blue sky that was rapidly deepening to evening purple, resembling strokes of white paint on a canvas, a simple but effective counterpoint to the gilded majesty that dwelt below.  
  
It was beautiful, and once upon a time Jimmy would have delighted in the sight, but now it was absolutely the last place he wanted to be. _What are we doing here?_ he demanded, albeit groggily. _How long have I been out?_  
  
_This is The Church of Saint John the Apostle in Phoenix, Arizona. It has been a few days since we last spoke_. Castiel stepped up to the cathedral's perimeter, and Jimmy was struck by an unwelcome flash of nostalgia as his mind conjured up indelible impressions from his past life, old and precious memories of times spent in worship with Claire and Amelia: the brittle texture of Eucharist wafers, the smell of freshly poured wine, the way the lights from the candles (which had always remained lit, day and night, and _oh_ , he could still remember how they had brought Claire to church to light a votive candle the night her beloved hamster, Puck, had died) threw long and mysterium-inducing shadows over the stone altar. _I have business to attend to in Heaven. It shouldn't be very long, but in the meantime, you'll be staying here._  
  
If Jimmy had had control of his body, he would have done a double take. Instead he uselessly flapped his phantom limbs: the closest thing he had to real arms and legs as long as Castiel had the wheel.  _Are you insane? How am I supposed to be safe here? All a demon has to do is walk in—_  
  
_They can't just "walk in," because demons can't enter sacred spaces._ Castiel sounded exasperated, which was miles better than how he'd been last time, but that didn't suddenly make him not a kidnapping bastard. The doors opened to grant them entrance and Jimmy was treated to the sight of gleaming, empty pews. _No one will find you here._  
  
_Why aren't you just taking me to Heaven with you?_  
  
Castiel paused when he had reached the end of the aisle. _My superiors are not very happy that I continue to use you as a vessel. I'd rather not irritate them._ He spoke casually, but the uncharacteristic way his fingers played with the cross indentations on the front pew gave Jimmy reason to be worried; Castiel was very economic with his motions, was never one to waste a movement or do anything with his limbs that didn't have a very clear and purposeful end (such as, most recently, the time he had rotated an individual primary on one of his massive wings in order to disorient an enemy angel long enough to dispatch him with a thrust of his knife). _Like I said, it won't be long._  
  
_Okay, fine._ Jimmy tabled his feelings of unease. _But what if an angel shows up? Or, you know, just a regular crazy person._ And then a wave of shame and nausea, as he remembered that _he_ had been one of those crazy people not too long ago.  
  
Castiel said nothing, but then Jimmy felt the angel blade fall into his palm and watched the angel place it on the pew, disbelief threading through him. _There will be wards. Failing that, you will do what you must._  
  
Jimmy protested: _But—don't you need—_  
  
_You forget, I'm an angel. I can certainly take care of myself._  
  
_Against a demon, sure, but what about—_  
  
_I'm not debating you on this._ Castiel's voice took on the standard-issue robot tone with an eerie abruptness. _Do you want protection or not?_  
  
_All right,_ Jimmy acquiesced meekly, if only to avoid hearing the angel talk like that. _But I don't think it will do much good. I don't even know how to throw a punch. I'm more likely to stick myself before anyone else._  
  
_That is beside the point. The only thing that matters is that you do not let the enemy take you._ A pause. _You did well when you protected your family. Try to extend that level of care to yourself, for once._  
  
_Oh, the angel who rents me like a cheap suit is telling me I should care about myself?_ _That's precious._ Jimmy gave a bitter laugh. _Look, let's not kid ourselves with half-assed pretenses of concern, okay? Thing is, I know you don't—_  
  
He never finished that sentence, as all at once there was an effusive outpouring of light from his chest, accompanied by a high-pitched sound that rattled the liturgical candles down to their flames, extinguishing them in one swallow. The stained glass visages of Christ were briefly drowned in the brilliance of that light, and despite his hatred for the angel, for all the heavenly _(hellish)_ Host, Jimmy could not fight the urge to stare straight into it, his eyes taking in every scrap of what he could comprehend of Castiel's immaterial form as it passed from one plane of existence into another—time and space being crushed together beneath the great wings, as if the laws of the universe were of no consequence to them—  
  
The weight of glory lifted from his shoulders, Jimmy took a huge shuddering breath, released it in a broken cry, and sank to his knees like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  
  
All was dark.

* * *

He really didn't know what to do. What he _wasn't_ going to do was sit by himself in the dark, though, so Jimmy went looking for a light switch (pointedly ignoring the option of relighting the candles). When the sanctuary lights failed to work, he moved into the foyer and turned up a lamp—dusty and aging, but functioning—then flung his jacket to the floor. He'd come to hate the thing, eternally associated it with the final few moments he'd had control over his own body, before he'd opened his mouth to say yes and given up every vestige of his sane (or _comparatively_ sane) life.

At the last his throat grew hot and scratchy, and he knew he was going to cry. Jimmy started to walk back into the sanctuary, changed his mind, and retreated into an adjacent confessional, opened to him like an invitation. There, cloistered in the darkness, suffocating beneath the weight of his own sinful foolishness, he wept.  
  
The really pathetic thing was that even after all this, Jimmy still wanted to pray. He still wanted to march up to those candles and light them, he still wanted to cross himself, to recite the Hail Mary and the Our Father and every other prayer he'd been storing up in his spirit ever since his twelve-year-old self had been gifted with a rosary by a traveling priest (whom, for a sickeningly ironic stroke of _co-inky-dink_ , had declared that angels were guarding his soul). He still wanted to give praise to the loving Father he'd once believed had sustained him through his every delusional episode, brought him out the other side of all his flirtations with the gun or the knife or the poison (although maybe he had the fucking angels to thank for that), blessed him beyond measure with Claire and Amelia.  
  
Knowing, now, that there _was_ nothing to believe in. Not anymore.  
  
He didn't even think _Castiel_ believed in God. They'd just managed to restore him to factory settings up there in Heaven—what Dean had scornfully called "Bible Camp"—parroting religious phrases the way Claire's dolls would gush about domestic life and how wonderful shopping was when you pulled their strings. Only now, when you pulled Castiel's strings, you got to hear all about God and the unfailing obedience of a soldier.  
  
Funny, that. And by "funny," he meant the exact opposite.  
  
"I trusted You," he sobbed, letting his head sink into his hands. "I thought he was Yours, I thought You sent him so I could help make things better down here... how could You let this happen? _How could You do this to me_?"  
  
He stopped, afraid. As if by instinct his eyes turned down to where the plaque bearing the words of the Act of Contrition was nailed. He couldn't read them, but he knew well enough what they would say.  
  
_I detest all my sins—I dread the loss of Heaven—and the pains of hell—_  
  
In a universe where angels were indiscriminately murdering balls of light and every supernatural horror imaginable was real, who was to say with certainty that God _didn't_ exist? And that, moreover, He wasn't every bit as monstrous as the creatures that populated Heaven and earth? Could Jimmy expect to go to hell if he kept this up?  
  
He was not yet stupid enough to say that he would take the chance. He may not have seen hell, but he had seen _Dean_.  
  
Jimmy continued to cry, pouring out his anguish in loud hiccupy sobs, until at last it seemed he had no more tears left within him. He shook silently for a few moments longer before leaving the confessional, stumbling back into the sanctuary and into the front pew. He picked up the angel blade and began turning it over in his hands, at once fascinated and repelled by its otherworldly aura, how it seemed to reflect every color in the world and was yet no color at all.  
  
_Idiot_ , he thought. His emotions were confused. _He didn't have to leave this. What if he dies out there? What if—_  
  
A sudden stab of pain in his stomach. He realized he was starving; Castiel most likely hadn't touched a crumb of food, not since Jimmy's last greasy burger. And of course the angel would leave without telling him how to feed himself. How long was _not long_ , anyway? He'd come to find out over the last year that multi-dimensional waves of celestial intent weren't exactly the best judges of time. In which case, the odd angel or demon showing up to kill him was really the least of his worries.  
  
He wondered, briefly and without much hope, if he would be able to find a phone somewhere in here. Maybe he could call the house. Maybe Amelia would pick up. If he could just hear her voice one more time, then—  
  
_Then what? You want to put her through the anguish of reminding her that you can never see each other again? That_ _ **you're**_ _the reason Roger and Lisa are dead and a demon took her for a joyride? You had a chance to not fuck things up, Jimmy, and you blew it. You should have just died on the streets, back when your only crime was belonging in the nuthouse._ Jimmy's inner voice was no less venomous for the clarity it now possessed. _If you care about her at_ _ **all**_ _, you'll let her forget you and find actual happiness with someone else._  
  
The idea of Ames— _his_ Ames, the rock and strength of his life for the past fifteen years, the sole balm to his increasingly fragmented mind, at least until their little Claire-bear had come into the world and increased their joy tenfold—starting over with someone else was too awful to contemplate, but he forced himself to do it anyway. He needed to make—if not peace, then a tenuous acceptance—with the fact that he could only ever make things worse for the girls, not better. They would never recover as long as his presence continued to intrude upon their lives. He had to stay away.  
  
He looked down at the angel blade.  
  
_Idiot_ , he thought again. It would be easy, so easy, to thrust it right into his heart—  
  
And then watch, an impotently screaming spirit, as Castiel entered Claire once more.  
  
Jimmy put the blade down. He wanted a drink. In the back of the sanctuary was a door that led off to a combination fellowship hall and soup kitchen, and he stumbled through it. He threw together an enormous portion of turkey on rye with swiss (a throwback to his stints in homeless shelters, when the nuns served up cold sandwiches as big as his forearm; he got to like the taste of turkey, if not the constant insistence that he have seconds). It looked amazing and tasted even better; he cried all the way through devouring it. He washed it down with orange juice, which he drank straight from the carton.

(He managed to ignore the red sacramental wine, boxed up rather unceremoniously next to the fridge.)  
  
The sanctuary was still empty when he came back. At this rate, it didn't seem like anyone would be dropping in; evening had come on fairly quickly and he hadn't caught the headlights of any passing cars through the windows. It was possible that Castiel's protective wards extended to the entire area, although he wasn't sure how that would have been accomplished. Not that he took much stock in the angel's brand of "protection" to begin with.  
  
"I'll take the high-end suburban home security system any day, thanks," he said, and then he gave a shrill laugh—talking to himself put him way too much in mind of one of his episodes. With any luck he'd wake up in the morning strapped into a bed with some dick in a white coat standing over him telling him he'd managed to hallucinate angels and demons and all other manner of supernatural fuckery, and _boyo, don't you schizos have quite the imagination!_  
  
And Jimmy would have replied cheerfully _yep, we sure do_ , only he knew when he woke up he was still going to be sitting here in this drafty church on these hard pews in front of the image of a crucified god he was slowly (only slowly, because no one just throws down their crutch the moment they realize it's less than useless, how unrealistic would _that_ be, like Dumbo knowing at the beginning of the movie he didn't need the feather) losing faith in, because nothing about anything that had happened over this last year even came close to resembling his scrambled-eggs flights of fancy.  
  
To think, life had been so much _simpler_ when he was certifiable.  
  
Jimmy clapped his hands to his mouth in horror, realizing he'd been speaking his thoughts aloud this entire time. It wasn't the sickness, not really, but it was a similar beast, brought on by trauma and loneliness and complete, soul-destroying despair; and if he didn't do something _right that moment_ to sate the monster's urges, he was going to become devoured by it. The way Castiel had devoured _him_ , as his Grace supplanted the blood pumping through his veins, inundated every cell of him with his own, holier brand of insanity—  
  
_Pray. Need to pray. I need to pray._  
  
He looked up at the forlorn figure hanging from the cross affixed above the altar, His eyes turned up in an expression of abject agony, as if He too had lost all faith in Jimmy's God. He had nothing to say to the Father—nothing good anyway, and he was too scared, besides—but Jimmy's heart still burned with love for the Son. Even so, he felt that any words uttered in Jesus's name would ring utterly hollow, utterly false. He needed another mediator.  
  
And then he realized.  
  
Dymphna. He could pray to Dymphna. He could do that much.  
  
He brought the card out of his suit pocket with trembling fingers. He didn't need it anymore than he needed a copy of the New Testament to recite the Lord's Prayer, but the gesture gave him strength, quelled the rumblings of unease in his mind. He was going to need that. Dymphna looked back at him, her expression as serene and undisturbed as he himself did not feel. Jimmy brought the card to his lips and kissed the saint's brow.  
  
"Good Saint Dymphna," he began, his voice shaky at first, and then calmer as his conviction grew, the familiar words falling from his lips and stirring up memories of a more innocent time. "O Dymphna, great worker of wonders in every affliction of mind and body, I humbly implore your powerful intercession with Jesus through Mary, the Health of the Sick, in my present need." He couldn't bring himself to name his need aloud, not when he didn't even know what was happening to him, other than that the _world_ was crazy and he was just now catching on to the fact. "Saint Dymphna, martyr of purity, patroness of those who suffer with nervous and mental afflictions, beloved child of Jesus and Mary, pray to Them for me. Obtain my request."  
  
_Bring back Claire bring back Amelia make it all the way it used to be please please please—_  
  
"Saint Dymphna, Virgin and Martyr, pray for us," he finished, his voice still calm, although his eyes had by now filled with unshed tears. By tiny, almost imperceptible degrees, the whirlwind in his mind lessened. He lay down on the pew and held the angel blade close to him, his hand closed in a fist around the card: a medieval knight clinging to his sword and his shield.  
  
He was still muttering her name when he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [St. Dymphna](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dymphna) is the patron saint of mental illness. There was a plot point in there somewhere...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the church, Jimmy dreams.

He opens eyes that aren't eyes; heaves a breath from lungs that don't exist. Humans can be exceptional failures at facing facts, confronting reality— _adapting_ —and so he needs these imaginary markers to inform him of what is happening to him, even as he no longer possesses a body of his own to commandeer, is just another drop of spirit and energy in the eternal sea of Grace, albeit one with self-awareness and (limited, very limited) autonomy. He opens his not-mouth to speak  
  
_Castiel_  
  
but Castiel doesn't say anything, because Castiel is busy. His own not-body remains suspended deep beneath the vast, vast ocean, where it is mostly peaceful, mostly quiet; but he can feel the interminable rumblings of a disturbance far above, so far that the distance must be equal to that between the earth and the sun. Of course, in a place where time and space and bodies do not exist, neither does distance; and Jimmy spans it with a mere thought, buoyed by curiosity, intent upon breaking the surface and beholding the world beyond.  
  
He thinks he hears Castiel speak  
  
_no, no, Jimmy, go back_  
  
but it's too late, he's already there, looking through eyes (real eyes) that are at once his and not his, and through these eyes he can see  
  
_Jimmy, stop_  
  
shapes and colors and material forms: wooden walls and dusty piles of hay, Enochian sigils painted in blood, a man with a shock of blond hair and a proud bearing. The man is an angel, that much is clear; he can see the fantastic iridescent waves of Grace billowing out behind him, although they'll never rival the deep blue beauty of the ocean that is Castiel.  
  
"I thought you would help,"  
  
a voice is saying, and he's shocked beyond measure, because it's his voice, _his_ , and yet it can't be because he isn't speaking. He hasn't been able to speak for a very, very long time. Then he remembers that he said yes, and the knowledge of such fills him with sudden bliss. He watches with detached peacefulness, even as Castiel speaks with two voices: one addressing the other angel and the other (his true voice, piercing like a knife and yet strangely gentle, strangely worried) urging him to turn back, _turn back now._  
  
"Please, Jabril," Castiel is saying. "There is a conspiracy in Heaven. I had to call you by secret means because you are one of the very few left I can trust. Uriel has betrayed us—"  
  
"Has he, now?" The other angel, Jabril, regards him with cold contempt. "And yet it was you, not him, who consorted with our Fallen sister. Tell me, Castiel, why _did_ you allow Anael to run amok as you did?"  
  
"I—I realize it was unorthodox," Castiel falters, "but her appearances did not run entirely counter to our Father's will. I was more preoccupied with making sure the seals remained unbroken than with apprehending her."  
  
"An outrageous lapse in duty. I should charge you with treason."  
  
"I am not the treasonous one," Castiel returns, and his Grace glows crimson with a frustration aimed both within and without; the ocean waves ripple, become a tidal wave, drag Jimmy back down into the depths, but Jimmy won't be deterred, and he quickly breaches the surface once more, just in time to hear Castiel continue: "Uriel had been letting the demons break the seals. He _wanted_ the Lightbringer to walk the earth again! And there are others like him! Don't you see? The demons were never behind the murders of our brethren, it was always—"  
  
"I can see Uriel didn't tell you the whole story," Jabril sneers, and the expression on his face (but no, that's not his face, any more than Jimmy's face is Castiel's) is one of ugly triumph. "He didn't _just_ want to free the Lightbringer. Oh no. That, on its own, would be far too reductive. Not to mention boring. I'm afraid there's a bigger picture you're not getting here, Castiel. A _greater good_ , we might say."  
  
"You're one of them," Castiel says, and while his human voice is subdued with shock, a devastation so cold and so deep—like a woman weeping over her stillborn child—travels through the watery realms of his Grace, a black whirlpool that tunnels past Jimmy and narrowly misses swallowing him whole. Jimmy cries out with fear for the first time and with a great effort Castiel restabilizes his environment. "You've been in collusion with him this whole time. Jabril, how could—"  
  
"Kindly shut up and let me make my point, little brother," Jabril interjects. "If perhaps you were a little more obedient to your family and a little less enamored with the mud monkeys, it wouldn't have come to this. You'd have understood that this is what has to be _done_ , in order to achieve Paradise."  
  
"Destruction could never lead to Paradise! It only leads to suffering!"  
  
"And yet our Father did it once before, did He not? The humans displeased Him, so He drowned them all. With a few exceptions, of course." Jabril gives another triumphant smirk. "I don't see a difference here."  
  
"The difference is _we are not God_ ," Castiel thunders, marching forward, the weight of his agitatedly flapping wings causing Jimmy's world to churn, for Jimmy himself to spread out like points on a compass. "We have no right!"  
  
"And yet we pray as the humans do. _Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven._ If God isn't happy with our efforts to bring the Kingdom to earth, He's had plenty of time to raise an objection. Now, Castiel. I'm here offering you a second chance. Not many angels get one." Jabril looks at him solemnly. "Will you join us?"  
  
Castiel quakes with righteous fury. "I will never help you do this."  
  
"I was afraid you'd say that," Jabril sighs, and then there's pain—the worst, most awful pain, like being run through by a thousand knives—but even before Jimmy can scream it's gone, absorbed in a fresh wave of Grace, not merely anesthetized but completely banished. He can sense Castiel whimpering involuntarily but otherwise exhibiting no reaction to the angel blade suddenly protruding from Jimmy's shoulder. When he turns his eye back inward he sees spidery black veins piercing the uneasy peace of his womb, tainted lightning threatening to splinter it apart; and Jimmy knows when that happens both angel and vessel will cease to exist.  
  
The angel sinks to one knee, feigning mortal weakness, and when Jabril draws close enough he springs to his feet with incredible speed, the light from the blade glancing off his wings in rainbow-colored shards as he frees it from his shoulder.  
  
Fast as he is, though—and he _is_ fast—Jabril is still faster. He dodges the thrust of the knife, then moves like lightning to disarm Castiel. It's a move that the angel would normally easily evade but for the fact that Castiel's intent doesn't seem to flow in sync with the movements of his body, like a video recording with lagging audio. As a result, the knife tumbles from his fingers and into Jabril's hand; but the silvery pivot of the blade fails to make its mark, as Castiel instead leads his opponent through a series of evasive movements that's almost like a dance.  
  
"Your Grace is _constipated_ , brother," Jabril laughs, a tinkle that's almost pleasant to hear. "It's little wonder you've been defeated so often since the war began. And yet I'm told war is one of your talents? I suppose Uriel was mistaken when he bragged to me about you."  
  
Castiel says nothing, and his own blade appears in his hand. He slashes out at his opponent from an angle during one of the dance's downsteps—an impressive technique that Jimmy has no name for—but Jabril side steps and counters once more with a thrust of the knife. Castiel is able to bat it aside harmlessly with a sweep of his wing, but his energy—his _Grace_ —is clearly flagging.  
  
Castiel says  
  
_I am sorry, Jimmy_  
  
and Jimmy says  
  
_it's okay_  
  
and Jabril roars with laughter, as if he's heard the funniest joke in his whole eons-long life.  
  
"I see it now! You're not even running on a full tank of gas, are you? You've been spreading your Grace thin, trying to protect that monkey you wear. Oh, Castiel, I pity you, you are so much more far _gone_ than I ever thought possible. Uriel should really not have wasted his time with you. Says something about his own sentimentalism, I suppose." He snorts with mirthful disgust.  
  
Castiel surprises him by speaking. "And you?" he demands, his voice shaking with fury, undergirded by tones of his true angelic voice, ringing like a clear bell on a still windless morning. "You would torment the one who trusted you enough to let you in? You wouldn't expend even a fraction of your Grace to spare him the pain you feel on the battlefield?"  
  
"You speak as if they're people, Castiel. Newsflash: they're _not._ " Jabril sounds bored. "They're containers, and not much else. You think Paradise is even for their benefit? Of course not. These things were bred to be ours, after all. They're like—oh, let's use one of your pets' little metaphors—they're like cattle. You raise them, fatten them up, and then slaughter them when it's their time. Trying to keep them blissfully unaware is just missing the point."  
  
Even before he finishes his sentence he's advancing on them in a flash, and Castiel utters a low guttural sound as his blade is knocked from his hand and his wings are smashed up against one side of the room. Even so, Jimmy can feel Grace being hastily erected to shield his meager soul from the full force of the blow.  
  
_stop it, Castiel,_ he cries, _stop, he's going to kill you_  
  
A truly terrible smile twists Jabril's features as his hand grips down on Castiel like a vice and the tip of his blade touches his throat.  
  
"For example, my vessel? Is _screaming_ right now. He didn't think he was going to be hurting anyone. Didn't think he was going to have to watch as his own hands spilled blood, and worse. He thought being a vessel was going to be all sweetness and light. Of course, the poor thing should have read the fine print before signing the contract. As yours should have, too, come to think of it." His grin grows even more grotesque, sharklike. "I want him to feel and see everything I do. To know just how _irrelevant_ he is. And at the end of the age—when Paradise is come—he will still be mine. _Mine._ Humans abused their freedom. Now they're going to learn what it's like not to have any. _For Thine is the power, and the glory_ —"  
  
Inside, Jimmy is crying. He tries, knowing it's useless, to reach past the cold, cold Grace that fills the eyes of the vessel like a bloody film, tries to reach out to the soul inside with words like  
  
_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry_  
  
All around him  
  
in him  
  
through him  
  
he can feel Castiel crying too.  
  
The angel speaks in a mournful whisper.  
  
"Then I can think of no more merciful fate to give him."  
  
There's the shift of a wing and the barn fills with light—Jabril screams, his own blade lodged in his heart—  
  
Jimmy wants to scream too but he's slipping away, falling and falling and falling

  
and now there are voices again, or maybe just the echo of them, Jimmy's awareness is so faint as to be nearly non-existent, but still he struggles to listen, to hear, to understand—  
  
_You know the law, Castiel. Adam sinned, so God cursed the ground. As the transgressor is punished, so too must the tool of his iniquity be destroyed, in order to restore him to all purity._  
  
_Please, my vessel is blameless, you can't—_  
  
_But we can. We must._  
  
_Think at least of the line he comes from. Jimmy Novak is the sole descendant of Ishmael, he has no brothers, no sisters—_  
  
_But he has a daughter, yes? You can use her. **If** you're even allowed to come back to this assignment. Really, Castiel, I don't understand why you're not more worried about yourself. Most of us wouldn't have let you live where you stand after what you did to Uriel and Jabril, but Naomi seems to think otherwise. She thinks she can make you see **reason.**_  
  
_I will come with you willingly. But please, please, you **must** spare the vessel._  
  
an eternity passes then, or maybe a nanosecond, before  
  
_Fine. I suppose, for one with such excellent military credentials as yours, we can make an exception. But hear this, Castiel: this is your **last** chance._

_Thank you_ , a voice says, but it's no longer anything resembling a human voice, as Castiel is being pulled out of him now, like a strand being unraveled from a spool of thread, spinning out higher and higher towards Heaven until there must be nothing left behind—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Jabril is an alternate spelling for Gabriel, but it was so cool I couldn't _not_ use it. :D


End file.
